Lovesong
by lismicro
Summary: I would've written songs for you. I would've written operas, symphonies, whole libraries full and I still wouldn't be able to write enough.


**Just wanted to thank everyone who read and/or reviewed my first story, you guys are all incredibly sweet. I hope you enjoy this one as much! Takes place around "Original Song". Special brownie points if you can guess which song inspired this :) Please review if you wish!  
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><p>When Santana Lopez shows up (without warning!) and pushes her into an empty classroom on the way out of Glee, Quinn's first instinct is to bitch-slap her into the next century. Who does the girl think she is? Just because they're not on the Cheerios anymore doesn't mean she isn't still a few rungs above her on the social ladder. Quinn Fabray was the queen among queens, and queens in general are not dragged into empty classrooms and…locked in?<p>

"What the f-"

Sure enough, the lock clicks and Quinn sees a glimmer of something unknown in Santana's eyes as she crosses her arms over her chest, the infamous smirk strangely missing from her face.

"Quinn, I need a favor."

Quinn scoffs, slams her books down onto the nearest desk and purses her lips, mimicking Santana's pose. They face each other three feet apart and she can still smell the faint cigar smoke on the girl's leather jacket.

It sends shivers up her spine, but there's no way she's letting Santana know that.

"You sure know how to ask for one."

"Listen, I just told Brittany there was a duck sitting on the roof of her car and if she hurried she could catch it."

Quinn raises an eyebrow. Santana winces and shrugs.

"Yeah, that probably wasn't my best, but the point is that I've-got-to-hurry."

She's obviously not going to drop this, so Quinn sighs, perches on a desk, and folds her hands over her lap.

"Okay, shoot."

Santana steps forward and sucks so much air into her lungs that Quinn's a little afraid that the she's going to hyperventilate. This was Santana? Santana, who had gotten her first suspension in seventh grade for lighting a math textbook on fire. Santana, who gave Puck a black eye freshman year for slapping another girl's ass in the hallway. Santana, who _did not_ flail for air like a landed trout, especially not in front of Quinn. What the hell was going on?

"I need you to write me a song for Brittany."

_Well, that was unexpected._

Quinn's eyes go wide. Her hands quiver and her mouth goes dry. Somewhere in her body, her heart stops beating and the aching begins.

She forces words out of her mouth and hopes that they make sense.

"You want me to write you a song."

"Mmhmm."

"For Brittany."

"Yeah."

"A love song directed toward _Brittany_, from _you_."

"Jesus, Q, do you need it spelled out for you? Yes, I need a fucking song, is that so hard to understand?"

Quinn snaps out of her daze and her hands dig into her skirt, stopping her from doing anything stupid, like flipping her off for being a bitch; even now, in the position she was in.

_Or grabbing her hands. Or pulling her in. Or closing your eyes and k-_

"Again- you're not good at the favor-asking thing. And no, I'm not going to write a song for you, that's just too weird."

She grabs her things and makes for the door but Santana grabs her wrist and blocks her way, and suddenly their bodies are far too close for comfort. There is desperation pouring in waves from the girl and Quinn smells Santana's perfume and detergent and that smoke again. She looks into softening brown eyes and suddenly her tongue is too large for her mouth because she can't breathe either. _This is too close, this is too close-_

"Please."

She sounds so _raw _that Quinn recoils.

Her chest caves in as she watches Santana wrap her arms around herself, rock back and forth and swallow over and over again.

"I-I don't know what I can do anymore, Q. I need to get her back from Wheels. I need her, I-"

There's really nothing Quinn can say to that, so she holds her tongue. Santana looks up and away, presses her fist to her mouth, and her body shudders once, twice. Then she's back on steady feet and her eyes are iron again, all business. Quinn can't tell whether she regrets spilling to her or not.

"I can pay you."

"I don't need the money that badly."

"Quinn, it's not like I'm asking you to mack on her or serenade her, just a love song. Like that one you did with Sam. Y'know, something simple and cute. Something that'll make her see me again."

Confusion creases Quinn's brow.

"What are you talking about, you look at each other every day. All the time."

_I should know._

"Looking isn't the same as seeing. You look at Finn, but you don't see him."

Quinn cannot _believe_ the words that are coming out of Santana's mouth. Actually, she can, she just doesn't want to. So she turns to her default, puts her best bitch face on and points a finger.

"Okay, number one, you're wrong about Finn and me. Shut up if you know what's good for you. Number two, that song I sung with Sam was written by someone else. Number three, I'm sure Brittany'll appreciate a love song written by me as opposed to her…wannabe-girlfriend."

Her voice catches on that last word but Santana doesn't notice. Instead, Santana advances on her like a vulture, slamming her fists into a desk and looking up at Quinn like she's praying.

This is not the Santana she knows and…despises. Yes, she despises Santana. _Keep reminding yourself._

"Q, I can't have it turn into Trouty Mouth 2.0."

"You're actually admitting it?"

"Admitting what?"

"That you're a crappy songwriter."

"….Fine, if I say it will you write me a song?"

Quinn blinks. What on earth had Brittany done to her?

"Answer's still no. And anyway, why don't you just ask Rachel?"

"Manhands is my last resort, I'm not going to her unless I am literally ready to dig my own grave."

"Well, grab a shovel, because I am not writing you a song for Brittany. Jesus."

There is nothing more painful than turning away from her.

"Wait, what the hell do you have against Brittany?"

Quinn snatches up her books with a little too much force and slaps them to her chest, striking an aggressive pose and pushing roughly past Santana on her way to the door.

"What do I have against Brittany? Nothing. I adore Brittany, everyone adores Brittany. It's _you_ I have a problem with."

_Yes, I have a problem with you, Santana. I have a problem with you being too much for me to take._

And she flips the lock and stomps out the room because every second Santana remains _that close_ to her is another reminder that she cannot control herself around her. Quinn can't stop herself from thinking _those _thoughts and wanting to do _those _things to the fiery girl who'd somehow managed to lose her heart to another.

Another blonde. Another blonde Cheerio. Another blonde Cheerio who just happened to be the sweetest, most innocent thing on the planet, loving and being loved by everyone. In short, Quinn's complete opposite and someone that she couldn't even begin to hate.

But she wanted to. God, she wanted to hate Brittany for having Santana without even trying. She wanted to hate Santana for not seeing anyone but Brittany. She wanted to hate herself (scratch that, she already hated herself) for letting all this _happen_ to her and having no power to change it.

What a mess. What a fucked-up mess.

"Real mature, Fabray! Thanks for nothing!"

When Santana sweeps angrily by, muttering something about Streisand and solos, Quinn waits until her fellow ex-cheerleader is safely out of sight before slumping against the door. Her books drop to the floor, her bag sinks down beside it, her knees knock against each other.

She breathes and breathes and wishes for satisfaction. But it never comes.

_I would've written songs for you. I would've written operas, symphonies, whole libraries full and I still wouldn't be able to write enough._

_Because I'll never be enough for you._


End file.
